


The American Dream

by Enochianess



Series: Dirtiest white boy in America [10]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Domestic Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Episode Related, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobia, Hurt Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealous Mickey Milkovich, Juvie, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mickey Uses His Words, Murder, Mutual Pining, POV Mickey Milkovich, Past Rape/Non-con, Prostitution, Protective Ian Gallagher, Reunion Sex, Riding, Schizophrenia, Season/Series 03, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, Smut, The American Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4438301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 3 Episode 2 - Mickey focused</p><p>"Hey! What's going on under there?" He calls out, peering into the shade beneath the bleachers.</p><p>He's pretty fucking sure he knows exactly what the fuck is going on. </p><p>"Lookie what we got here!" He says in a sing-song voice, swinging under and over the metal scaffolding, his signature smirk widening into a full-on grin when he catches a glimpse of fiery red hair. He doesn't really care about how he's finding the kid; he's just fucking happy to see him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The American Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of Mickey Milkovich and I don't think his side of the story was explored enough on the show, so I'm writing his story canonically episode by episode and adding and expanding upon the scenes as I see fit (And yes, this does include smut, because their kiss and sex scenes were virtually nonexistent). All the works will be named after the episodes in the show.
> 
> *Gives you the bird because we're in the shameless fandom and this is the best way of expressing my affection and love for you all*
> 
>  _Disclaimer: All named locations used in this fic are real, but the events are a work of fiction. Therefore, the depictions I have made of the locations are not accurate and I do not mean to make any claims on the reality of them_.

_Mick,_

_Mom died. Overdose._

_Figures, right?_

_\- Mandy._

_P.S. Don't be a prick_

 

Mickey stared at the postcard in his hands, the picture of the Chicago skyline mocking him from where he sat in his cell. He's been turning it over and over in his hands, handling it with a small frown on his face, and now the card is creased and worn. It's the first time he'd ever been given mail in Juvie. He was used to the other boys receiving stuff: letters, books, photos. But he'd never had anything before. 

_Mama died._

Honestly, Mickey's finding it fucking difficult to process. His mom's always been this sort of enigma, a mythical, alien-like being. Each time she stumbled her way back home, often bruised and bloody and out of her fucking mind, it seemed like she was getting worse, like her body had finally given up on her. But, each and every time, she got back up. She kept fucking going.

Her dad, _Viktor,_  had been a junkie; the bad kind. He'd had a deviated septum, bloodshot eyes and skin that seemed to just hang from his bones. He'd give and do just about anything for his next fix. Hell, the old man didn't have any fucking choice if he wanted to make another 24 hours. So, when Mira was 11, her dad started offering her body to his dealers in exchange for enough coke to tide him over. She stayed silent, did as she was told, and learnt how to shut it all out, how to stave off the tears that seemed to permanently burn in her eyes. Her entire world consisted of old, violent men and foreign whores, of crack houses and the death that breeds inside them. It was acidic, corrosive. Whatever innocence Mira was born with was almost immediately stripped from her. She surrendered herself to it. Gave herself over almost willingly to the men who tried their best to tear her apart, to beat her beyond recognition, to pump her so full of toxins that one of the slightly older whores would have to run after her and stop her from taking a swan dive from the top. All the intelligence and wit and empathy she'd been gifted with seemed to just drift away, diffuse from the holes in her veins like a peculiar osmosis. She faded away faster than most. She'd been broken fucking badly, even by South Side standards. And there was no one there to care. No one but the occasional pitying hooker, who watched upon her unconscious, inebriated form with a sense of profound loss. Another child dead. Another child brought to destruction without even the energy or will to fight it.

Perhaps being surrounded by all the mania is why she doesn't pick up on it, why she doesn't realise something is drastically wrong. The crack-heads around her are always babbling away to themselves and seeing crazy shit, so she thinks it's normal. And, honestly, no one had ever paid her enough attention to notice the shift. She thinks it's normal that she can hear someone whispering in her head, telling her to do unspeakable things and scaring her fucking shitless. She hasn't got anyone to tell her the things she's seeing aren't really there, that no one's chasing her, that there's no monster. All of it is real to her and she doesn't understand that the hell she's trapped in is an acute psychosis, a genuine illness caused by an extreme chemical imbalance in the brain. She doesn't understand how dangerously sick she is. Nobody bats an eyelid at her behaviour, the way she'll stand shaking in the corner, pulling clumps of hair out, quietly muttering to herself under her breath. Nobody says a word, because in the places her dad took her, it was sort of expected. Junkies were doing crazy shit all the fucking time and she simply blended in, faded into the background. 

In the beginning even Terry didn't notice anything was wrong, but that's mostly because he'd always presumed she was just on crack like the rest of them. Terry fucked Mira, and then Terry gave Viktor some of the good stuff. They quickly fell into an arrangement and Mira was happy to have a steady customer. It was far nicer going to the same guy each time; that way she knew what to expect. Plus, Terry was pretty young compared to some of the men she'd had to fuck. He was arrogant and possessive and violent, spitting out vicious words in Ukrainian each time one of the junkies tried to touch her. It was nothing to do with love or affection; Terry was protecting his reputation, not Mira.

Eventually, as they always did, things turned to shit. Her dad started asking for too much, seeking him out all hours of the day and night, falling to his knees sobbing, begging for just a little more. He'd promise Terry anything he wanted, anything at all, but the old man had nothing but his daughter. And, as far as Terry was concerned, Mira belonged to him by then anyway. Hell, she hadn't menstruated for at least two months, so she was probably carrying his bastard child. And, to her horror, she was. Certain that she wouldn't run now, Terry pulled the trigger on Viktor and took her home with him, intent on building a family of new recruits.

Mira didn't respond well to being a mom at the age of fourteen, her underdeveloped body struggling to recover from childbirth and the deterioration of her mental health. It was then that Terry began to notice. He'd be woken up in the night by the cries of a hungry Jamie, would turn to yell or hit Mira for letting the baby wake him, and would find her walking along the wall, tapping at it and muttering to herself. He'd be taking a piss in the middle of the afternoon, only to be interrupted by a bone-chilling scream coming from the next room. He'd rush in, gun loaded in his hand ready to murder whoever had entered the house, only to find Mira curled up in the corner, fingers knotted and twisted in her long hair. It was fucking with his sleep schedule, messing with business, so he dealt with it the way he dealt with everything else. He lined up a couple inches of powder, pushed her head down to the table, and watched while she snorted the cocaine up and into her system. It didn't make her less crazy, but it was a crazy he knew how to deal with. Whenever she got too loud, outspoke, cried, he'd hit her. And sometimes, when she really lost it, he'd wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until she passed out. He kept fucking her, and she kept falling pregnant. Some were born - healthy and kicking and screaming - others were born still and lifeless, and some didn't make it that far. She looked after them as best she could, but a lot of the time it wasn't enough. The Milkovich children grew up dirty, underfed and wild, quickly learning how to fend for themselves. They were born, but they were certainly not raised.

Mickey knows crack-heads can get all kinds of crazy, but it's nothing compared to the way his mom would get sometimes. It had always terrified him. He'd always thought he would acclimatise as he got older, thought it'd freak him out less once he'd learnt to anticipate it, but that never happened. He'd often be woken in the middle of the night by screams of, _"Get 'em off! Get 'em off! Please! Someone help me!"_ , coming through the thin wall beside his bed. He'd shuffle out his room, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, his pulse beating more and more rapidly as the dread surfaced. He'd open the door and stare at the tiny, curled up form of his mom, scratching and clawing at her skin until blood was seeping out and filling the crevices beneath her nails. He'd stay silent, just watching helplessly, until his other siblings came to stand beside him. They'd all watch a while, not wanting to leave her alone even though there was nothing they could do to make her break the surface of her psychosis. Iggy and Joey would cry, scrubbing at their eyes angrily when Jamie slapped the backs of their heads in warning; they couldn't afford to cry, not when Terry could stumble home at any point. Tony would squeeze Mickey's shoulder, and then sigh as him and Jamie entered the bedroom, ready to tie her down so she couldn't hurt herself anymore. Mandy would slide her small, bony hand into Mickey's, gripping tightly enough to crush the fragile joints, but would remain otherwise entirely composed. When it came to mom, Mandy had always dealt well. She kept her expectations low, her hatred and resentment high. And even though Mickey disliked how viciously and cruelly his little sister spoke of her, he was also envious. It would be easier, he'd always thought. Easier to hate than to love.

They all had their reasons for hating their mom, but Mandy had arguably suffered the worst of her outbursts. _Physically_ anyway. The emotional scars were etched pretty deeply into all of them. 

Their mom had been in a pretty severe negative phase, barely even aware of the world around her, when a three year-old Mandy had reached out for her, wanting comfort after a tussle with her brothers. Mira had turned to stare at her, eyes cold and distant, and sneered as she pressed the scolding tip of her cigarette to her daughter's shoulder. Mandy had screamed, clutching to Mickey the moment he ran in, shaking with both pain and shock. It was the first time Mickey realised he had more than one parent to protect his little sister from, more than one parent he couldn't trust not to hurt them. He'd bit at his lip in an attempt to stop himself from crying, holding Mandy close as he met the dead eyes of his mother. His stomach twisted sharply, his throat constricting.  _"Mama,",_ he'd whispered in the hope it would bring her back to him. It didn't. 

They're not much older when she first disappears. Terry is arrested and thrown in the can for possession, and Mira makes the most of the opportunity; Mickey doesn't exactly blame her. If it had been any other family than the Mikoviches, things probably would've turned to shit fast. But, they were resourceful and had practically been surviving by themselves for years. Mickey stole food for them from stores across the neighbourhood, taking just enough to cover them but not enough to put the stores on high security alerts; a little theft was expected - it was on the South Side, after all. Jamie and Tony kept the drug runs going, following on from where Terry had left off, and used the money they acquired from that to pay the gas and electricity bills. 

She showed up again eventually, shaking and weak from withdrawal. It didn't take long for Mickey to work out what that meant. It meant she was making another futile attempt to come off the drugs Terry had got her hooked on. It meant she was about to tumble headfirst into another negative phase of her schizophrenia. It meant all the paranoia would start soon, the incapability to take care of herself. It meant the sudden outbursts of violence, his brothers having to team up to hold her under the shower whilst Mickey and Mandy rushed to strip the sheets from the bed she hadn't left in over a week. It meant she was in trouble and needed to lay low for a while; she wasn't home for any other reason, despite what she'd told Mickey. Her skin was spattered with bruises and other painful looking marks, but the only suffering she seemed to be enduring was the sickness of an unfed addiction. She stayed in her room most of the time, trying to sleep through the sweating, heart palpitations and nausea. But sometimes she'd be too restless for that and would venture into the rest of the house. Mickey remembers how she'd emerged one morning, walked over to Mandy and tried to lift her. She hadn't had enough strength in her arms to manage it, and Mandy was tense as she tried to wriggle out of her mother's grasp. Mickey's convinced Mira couldn't remember burning her daughter, and he thought that was sort of heartbreaking in a fucked up way. 

Eventually, she crumbled. A string of men would show up on the doorstep and she'd show them into her room, slam the door shut, and completely ignore the bewildered faces of her children. She'd let them fuck her, hurt her, do whatever they wanted so long as they paid up in either cash or crack. If they didn't- well, that was when Tony usually stepped in. He couldn't stop his mom from using herself that way, but he could certainly stop the assholes from taking advantage. It was just like when she was younger, before Terry, except she was doing it from a place of her own desperation.

Mickey knew the whole thing should've disgusted him, but it had always just made him sad. His mom was so fucking tiny, so young considering all the shit she'd been through, and she had always suffered blindly. Mickey's not sure whether it's better or worse that she's always been so oblivious. He just hopes that it had been painless in the end. He thought she deserved that much. Hell, it wasn't her fault she'd been born into a shit-show and her dad was a fucking asshole.

 

Their mom had died, and still, no one came to visit him. Not even Ian this time. Not that Mickey blamed him. Hey, why would the kid know what the hell was going on in his family life? Fuck knows he had enough to worry about with his own lot. And, Mickey had never let him in on any of that anyway, had he? He'd held everything back from Gallagher, had reaped the seeds of his own profound isolation. 

 

It feels strange, foreign even, when he approaches one of the attendants and asks to make a phone call. He's allowed one a week, with up to ten minutes in duration, but he's never made one before.

"You phoning family?" The tall, solid guy replies, his tone gruff and authoritative. "You can only call the people who've been approved."

"Wanna talk to my sister." 

The attendant smirks but doesn't say anything other than, "Aight. Come with me."

Mickey trudges behind him, his nerves spiking at the scrape and grind of the heavy, metal gates. 

"You got money in your commissary account, right?" The guy asks.

"Fuckin' hope so." Mickey grumbles in reply.

"I'll just be over here, so don't try anythin' cute. All phone calls are recorded and monitored. Knock yourself out."

He feels uncomfortable in his prison uniform, dialling his sister's cell whilst the guards and employees stare at his back. It makes him paranoid, and the fact someone somewhere will be listening to his conversation, someone watching him through the dozen cameras focused on him, makes it even worse.

It takes nine rings before she answers and he's fucking pissed when he has to listen to the automated message, waiting for Mandy to accept the call and be put through.

"Why the fuck are you calling me?" Mandy snaps the moment they're connected.

Mickey can't help the smile that spreads across his face, the sound of her voice instantly soothing and bringing him back to himself.

"That's a fucking rude way to answer the phone." Mickey jokes. 

"I'll hang up on you." She threatens.

He knows she's not kidding, so he's quick to get to the point. _Ten minutes._

"Who found her? Tell me what the fuck happened."

"Some cops raided a crack house in Englewood. Somewhere down South Honore Street. They found her face down on a mattress. Dead a few days they reckon." Mandy explains, her tone bored. Mickey's not sure if it's a facade or not; Mandy's feelings towards their mom were so twisted and mixed up that he's pretty sure even she didn't understand them.

"And no bullet wounds? Stab wounds?" Mickey asks quietly. There might be someone listening in to his conversation, but he doesn't need to broadcast it to anyone else in this shithole.

"Nope. Just plenty of needle holes. They reckon she might've been raped too. Who the fuck knows with her though, right?"

"They say anythin' else?"

"Mick, we're lucky they said anything to us at all. Shit, she was one of a fucking million crack whores on the South Side. There must be at least a couple dozen who overdose every day."

"But it was nothing to do with the schizophrenia?" 

"They didn't mention it, but I guess the voices could've made her spiral. It doesn't fuckin' matter though. She's gone."

"Has dad been around? He know yet?"

"Yeah. The prick doesn't give two shits though, Mick."

Mickey nods, scrunching his eyes closed in anger. "Aight, thanks."

"You dropped your soap yet?" She asks. Mickey can hear her smirk through the phone, and he knows it's her way of lightening the mood.

"Fuck off."

"Douchebag."

"Fuck-twat."

 

The first thing Mickey does when he gets back to Canaryville is look for Ian. He'd like to delude himself, if only for just a little bit longer, into believing there is nothing behind it. He knows that's utter bullshit though. He's been thinking about seeing the redhead since the moment he was locked up. He's been thinking about fuck-all else.

He knows the kid will still be in school at this time, and he hopes it's break or a study period. He's learnt by now that Ian never skips class, much to his bemusement. Mickey's pretty sure he hadn't managed to attend all his classes even in first grade. The only one who had really taken school seriously on a long-term basis was Mandy.

He's walking the line of the football field when a familiar voice stops him in his tracks. Something peculiar flutters in his stomach; a mixture of both anticipation and nerves. He's all too aware of how badly he'd left things, how badly he's fucked up. He just hopes letting Frank live will make up for it, if only partially.

"Hey! What's going on under there?" He calls out, peering into the shade beneath the bleachers.

He's pretty fucking sure he knows exactly what the fuck is going on. 

"Lookie what we got here!" He says in a sing-song voice, swinging under and over the metal scaffolding, his signature smirk widening into a full-on grin when he catches a glimpse of fiery red hair. He doesn't really care about how he's finding the kid; he's just fucking happy to see him again.

"Mickey?" Ian questions with a frown, obviously confused as he slowly continues to pull his shirt over his head.

Mickey really wishes the redhead wouldn't bother. The kid has grown while Mickey's been away, filled out, toned up. Mickey wants to spend his sweet time looking over the changes, admiring the obvious results of his training. He wants to run his tongue along the grooves of his abdominals, take his time slaving over the defined muscles in a way he'd never allowed himself to before. And honestly, he'd really like to see if Gallagher's as strong as he looks. He's always liked it when Ian manhandled him, and Jesus fucking Christ does the kid look like he could really toss him around now. He'd like to test the theory. The sooner the fucking better.

"I thought you were still in Juvie." Ralph mutters, his voice quivering slightly.

Mickey can see the way Gallagher is trying to hide his amusement. He wants to punch him a little bit, because Ian isn't supposed to be so chilled out. The redhead should feel threatened too.  _He's been caught boning another dude by a Milkovich._ It's fucking irritating that even after everything, Ian still trusts him, still thinks he's safe with him. Gallagher should know better. No one was safe around a Milkovich. Mickey can't help but wonder what it'll take for him to prove that.

"Not anymore." Mickey quips, punctuating his response with a kick to the Asian kid's balls.

He'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good, didn't give him a strong sense of satisfaction. It soothed him, but over what he wasn't sure. He figured it was better to be on the giving rather than the receiving end of a fag bashing, and he relished in the knowledge that he was still on the giving end. At least for now.

"You having some sort of queer-bo sex under here?" He asks, continuing the blows now the kid's on the floor, kicking his stomach repeatedly. He's not being too rough, not really. Hell, the irony of the situation wasn't totally lost on him. He was doing the kid a favour. If it was anyone else, they'd probably kill him.

"No, no, I swear." Ralph gasps out.

Mickey doesn't stop. He's pretty fucking surprised Gallagher hasn't intervened yet, and he's feeling kind of smug about it because that means the redhead doesn't give two shits about his new fuck-buddy. He tries not to focus on how relieved it makes him feel, or how all the aggression begins to dissipate. He hadn't even realised how angry he'd been feeling, how heat had surged up within him, or how he'd instinctively pushed the discomfort away. He has no right to be angry. Not with Ian anyway.

"Why are you still beating me up? He was doing it too." Ralph whines from the ground.

"You're the one taking it in the ass, right? You're the one I've gotta kick straight." He explains, crouching down and grabbing the boy by the scruff of the neck. He tries his best to ignore the smug look on Ian's face. "It working?"

"Yes, yes." The kid pants desperately, pleading.

"Good. Get the hell outta here." He orders, kicking the kid up the ass once he'd scrambled to his feet, just for good measure.

He watches the back of the uniformed boy as he runs away, electricity prickling under his skin at the prospect of finally being alone with his redhead. 

"You got any fuck left in you, or you dump it all in that faggot's ass?" He blurts out when he turns to face Ian, the harsh words a natural cover for the rush of emotions he's unable to control.

Ian smirks at him, his mouth widening as it transforms into a big, toothy grin. Mickey tries to fight it, tries to hold onto the disgruntled, stoic mask, but he can't help it. He struggles, and then he smiles back just as widely. He thinks it might be the first time he's smiled properly for months.

He steps further into the shadows where he knows they'll be slightly more hidden, undoing his pants whilst Ian follows closely behind. He pushes everything down to his ankles, listening to the distant shouts of the freshman gym class to help him steady his breathing, and waits whilst Ian shucks his own clothing off and slicks up his fingers. It's teasing when he presses them to Mickey's perineum, sliding them up to trace over his balls before trailing back down to his hole. Mickey can't tell if he's being punished or worshipped, or maybe even a mixture of the two. Suddenly, Ian pushes two digits inside, taking Mickey so by surprise that he can't help but yelp. He really hopes no one heard because fuck if he was gonna stop this for anything now they'd got started. Mickey had waited fucking months and patience wasn't a trait he'd been blessed with.

Ian makes quick work of prepping Mickey, apparently sharing the same sense of desperation and hunger. The redhead pushes inside, moaning as the head of his cock breaches the thin circle of muscle, his fingertips digging into the curve of Mickey's hips. Mickey's clinging to the scaffolding in front of him like his life depends on it, his face contorted in pleasure as Ian finally bottoms out. He hates himself for even thinking it, but it's like finding a missing piece of himself when they're finally locked together. It makes all the other shit fade into the background, if only for a moment.

"Mm...  _fuck,"_ Ian murmurs, his breath hitching when he experiments with a shallow thrust of his hips.

"Don't make me say it, asshole." Mickey says through gritted teeth.

Ian liked it when Mickey begged, but it always took a while to build him up to the stage where he was feeling loose enough to really let himself go. And with a few months spent in Juvie, Mickey was pretty far away from that kind of headspace. 

"Okay. I got you." Ian says quietly, pressing a hesitant kiss to the tip of Mickey's spine before pulling out and slamming back in.

Mickey lets his head drop, lets it fall down between his shoulders, only to have it yanked back by Ian's fingers tangled in his hair. A breathless laugh falls from his lips, quickly broken off by a litany of, " _Ah, ah, ah's,",_ when Ian shifts his hips and thrusts in at a different angle, the pace still just as punishing. He reaches behind with one hand, letting go of the metal bar in favour of giving into the urge to  _touch,_ and grasped at Ian's ass, urging him to go faster on each snap of his hips. Ian grunts, sliding his hands up Mickey's torso, beneath his shirt, and wraps his arms around him until he can pull him upright, the two of them now pressed together chest-to-back. Mickey keened at the new position, Ian sliding deeper inside him and brushing roughly against his prostate.

"Ian," He choked out, turning his head and burying his face in the redhead's neck when Ian twisted at his nipple; they'd always been fucking sensitive.

He mouthed at the long column of Ian's throat, smiling at the shocked noise the other boy made at the unexpected press of lips. It wasn't something Mickey usually did, but holy fuck had he missed this stupid kid. He wanted to feel him everywhere, taste the salt of his skin on his tongue. He didn't just want to imagine what it'd be like anymore; he needed it to be real. 

"Mick," Ian gasps, his hand cupping Mickey's jaw and his thumb brushing over his lips. 

Mickey allowed his head to be turned, twisting his neck until his eyes locked with Ian's hooded, green ones. And, to his surprise, that's all he needs to tide him over. His eyes squeeze shut and he jolts forwards as he comes, Ian's thumb sliding into his mouth for him to bite down on. He clenches down as he shudders through his climax, groaning when he feels Ian spurt his own release deep inside him. He smiles when Ian's arm tightens around his middle, trying desperately to keep them pressed together and stop Mickey from slumping forward to the ground. 

 

"Man, that was good." Mickey laughs once he's cleaned up and settled down on the floor. 

He pulls a cigarette from the new packet he'd bought earlier and wastes no time lighting up, immediately taking a long drag of the nicotine. He's content like that, still riding the high from his toe-curling orgasm with Ian, and smoke settling heavily in his lungs. It's the most peaceful he's felt in a long time. Hell, he thinks he might even be fucking happy.

"Missed ya." He admits, because it's the fucking truth and Ian deserves to hear at least that after what Mickey's put him through.

"You did?" Ian asks in surprise.

Mickey's stomach clenches.  _Shit, did the kid really not know by now?_

"Yeah, man." He reassures the redhead, pleased when Gallagher sits down beside him. "I had to do all the fucking in Juvie. Otherwise I'd end up someone's bitch right?"

He holds the cigarette out in offering. He hadn't done any fucking whatsoever, but he thought it was best to keep that to himself.

"Nice to switch back."

"Thought you had four more months." Ian says conversationally.

Mickey's fucking glad Ian doesn't linger on the topic of banging other people. He hated the idea of being exclusive, but he also didn't need a reminder of what it meant that they weren't.

"Yeah, let me out for overcrowding or some shit." He explains.

There was a lot more to it than that, but he didn't want to burden the kid with that shit. His stay in the brig hadn't been quite as jovial this time. Turns out not all the attendants were that bothered about stopping the inmates from abusing and molesting each other. Mickey learnt that the hard way.

"Coming back to school?"

Mickey spits a bit of tobacco onto the ground and then scoffs at Gallagher's suggestion.

"Hell no, man. I'd still be a fucking freshman. I haven't passed a single class." He says, their fingers brushing together as he takes the smoke back.

He'd done okay at school in Juvie, especially in math, but he still had no interest in going back. What good would it do him? He was already wrapped up in a job - one that certainly didn't require any of the skills they taught in a classroom.

"Why'd you come back then?" Ian asks, a deep frown etched into his forehead.

Mickey can't believe the kid is confused. Where the fuck else would he go? He didn't have much, but everything he did have was in this shitty neighbourhood. His family. His home.  _Ian._

"Fronted a bunch of coke before I went in. Time to collect." He mutters instead, blowing two plumes of smoke out his nose, because he can't admit to any of that other stuff without sounding like a fag.

It's not the real reason, but it's still true. If he didn't get the money they were owed, and quick, Terry was gonna be even more pissed than he probably already was. A kid in Juvie meant one less kid to go out on runs. Mickey knew he'd be in for it when he went home. He tells himself that's why he spends longer than normal hanging out with Ian after they've fucked. He was just avoiding his dad. It was nothing to do with basking in the kid's presence at all. 

 

Mickey is sat on the couch with Iggy when their dad barges in through the front door, reeking of beer and sweat. He knows the exact moment when Terry's alcohol-addled brain processes the fact his son is home. He dives forward, fists his hands in Mickey's shirt-front and yanks him to his feet. Mickey leans back as far as he can, twisting his head and wrinkling his nose at the stench of his dad's breath.

"'bout fucking time." Terry grumbles, sharply lifting his leg up and kneeing Mickey in the stomach.

Mickey jolts, curling in on himself in pain. He's sent sprawling down onto his hands and knees a moment later, Terry's elbow slamming down between his shoulder blades.

"You got a lot of shit to make up for. This ain't a fucking hotel." Terry snarls. "I want the money by the end of tomorrow."

Mickey pushes himself back onto his haunches, only balancing for a moment before he falls on his ass.

"Ah, fuck." He mutters when he swipes at his forehead, his fingertips coming back red. "Smacked my fucking head on the table."

"You know who you dealt to?" Iggy asks him.

He knows not to ask if Mickey is okay. It was fucking humiliating every time their dad hit them, and they'd all been through it enough to know it was best to just ignore it. 

"Yeah. It was a run-of-the-mill job. I'll get it." Mickey says confidently, his body throbbing.

 

Mickey's been hauling his ass over the South Side all night collecting, even venturing up into the North Side for a half hour or so. He's tired when he gets to the High School to find the last of his clients, but it feels so fucking good to be able to go wherever the fuck he pleases that he doesn't really care. He doesn't think he would've slept even if he wasn't working.

He punches the locker beside the Mexican kid's head, smirking when dread washes over his tanned face.

"Hey, Sanchez." He says jovially, looking the kid up and down in assessment. 

It was fucking hilarious how wimpy and clean the guy was; not an ounce of South Side in him.

"Aw, hell." Sanchez groans, his eyes closing in defeat.

"Time to pay up." 

He's not shouting or being aggressive, but he thinks the threat is clear all the same. His reputation was usually warning enough.

"They let you out?" 

"Good behaviour." Mickey replies, his eyes daring the kid to challenge him on it.

"I thought I had four more months."

Mickey takes a deep breath and then lets it out again in a heavy sigh, his eyebrows arching. He was actually feeling really fucking relaxed, what with the kid being his last customer. He could go home after this. Play a bit of Xbox, eat a couple pop tarts, jerk off without any creeps listening in.

"Think again." He tells Sanchez, reaching into the locker and pulling out the kid's bag.

"Hey, yo... campus security is coming." Someone calls behind them.

Mickey watches in irritation as the kid takes his chance to hit tail and run.

"What the hell you doing?" He snaps, acting like he's pissed even though all his anger had vanished the moment he'd seen it was Gallagher.

"Didn't want you to get busted." Ian replies, leaning against the wall and staring at him earnestly.

"I can look after myself, thank you."

But Mickey is secretly pleased by the concern; touched even. No one's ever bothered to try and keep him out of trouble before. He knocks the locker door shut, the bag in his hand.

"Just got outta Juvie, remember?"

He starts walking back down the corridor, rubbing nervously at his nose, choosing not to react to the way Ian had fallen into step beside him. He can feel the redhead staring at him though, practically burning holes into the side of his face. It's fucking unnerving. Mickey hated it when people focused that much on him. It usually meant nothing good.

"The fuck are you looking at?" He snaps, his eyebrows shooting up questioningly. 

The kid was so fucking weird sometimes.

"Nothing." Ian replies, his head snapping forward again.

They walk silently side by side out the school entrance, and Mickey suddenly realises he doesn't want to go home. He wants to hang out with Ian a little bit longer.

"I got something I wanna show you." He says, cocking his head in the direction of the L. 

"Now?" Gallagher asks in surprise.

"Mmhmm. You got somewhere better you gotta be?"

Ian shakes his head, smiling softly as he follows Mickey across the street.

 

The abandoned building that was once Michigan Boulevard Garden Apartments, located on East 47th Street between Michigan Avenue and Wabash, was a dusty, old brownstone that had previously been used for non-governmental subsidised housing. He'd found it when he was eight, after Terry had grabbed a kitchen knife during one of his rages and his mom had told him to run. There had been something strangely attractive and comforting about the smashed and boarded windows, the padlocked doors, the thick barring on the first floor to keep people out. He'd walked round the side, up North Wabash, past the white wooden doors, until he found the low chainlink fence. He jumped it, struggling somewhat because of his height. He'd always been a determined fucker though, and with a run up and a little momentum, he managed to hitch himself up and over. He landed in a crouch, a wide grin plastered on his face, triumphant. The courtyard had been overgrown, grass sprouting between cracks in the pavement, loose bricks strewn about, empty bottles and cans and all sorts of shit blown into the corners. Mickey can remember kicking at the gravel, dragging his feet through the dust, and bending down when he'd caught sight of a rusty bullet.

It'd been quiet; the noise of the rowdy South Side streets seeming to lull. He'd walked over to the nearest door, brick in hand ready to break the lock, and he'd found it already smashed. Mickey remembers how he'd felt a little disappointed he wasn't the first to claim the dilapidated lot as a hide-out. He'd ran up the stairwell, panting and wheezing as he ascended higher, until eventually he'd had to slow to a walk. He kept climbing, up and up, a panic starting to build, growing in tandem. He remembers how once he'd finally reached the top, he'd burst through the door, his breathing heavy and his body shaking. He'd walked to the edge of the roof and sat down, pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins. He'd gulped the oxygen down deep into his lungs, his eyes burning as all the images of his parents' fight had flashed to the front of his mind. He wasn't supposed to cry. His dad had never liked it when he cried. But up on that rooftop, the wind biting into his skin and cutting into his bones, staring down over Bronzeville and beyond, he'd let those few tears escape. He'd allowed himself one moment of weakness, screamed, got to his feet and kicked at the empty bottles until they smashed against the wall. He'd let himself break. And then he'd put himself back together. He'd known it was time to go back home, to go and see what was left. Or rather, _who_  was left. He remembers how the thought of it hadn't frightened him nearly as much as he thought it should've done. But then again, he'd spent his whole life preparing for such losses. In his family, you were always expecting them. 

He doesn't know why he's chosen to show it to Ian now. He thinks maybe it's something to do with the fact he's missed the kid so fucking much, and maybe he'd like the two of them to be alone for a while without the constant threat of being discovered. He's had enough of being frightened. He'd like to fucking enjoy himself for a little while.

Ian follows silently behind him as he walks the familiar path up North Wabash and jumps the fence. He feels fucking proud of how easily he gets over now, but then scowls when Ian swings his giant, giraffe-like limbs over it with absolutely no strain at all. Stupid, tall fuck.

He leads the redhead inside, walking through some of the old apartments rather than just climbing the stairs. He lets his fingers dance across the surface of the dusty piano he'd found on the third floor a few years back, not saying a word to Ian about how many hours he'd spent teaching himself to play it. He knows Ian wouldn't make fun of him for it, even though it's pretty fucking girly, but it is one of the only things he has that no one knows about. He's not ready to let that go yet.

"So someone just left that here?" Ian asks quietly, not expecting an answer, but rather just wondering aloud.

"I guess." Mickey shrugs, running the backs of his knuckles over the stained keys quickly before going back to the stairwell.

He notices how Ian lags behind him for a moment, staring at the,  _"Fuck you",_ spray painted on the wall. It's a little bit embarrassing watching someone else look at his graffiti. He's comforted by the thought Ian won't know it's his work.

By the time they reach the top, Mickey has a stitch in his side and sweat beading on his forehead. He sits down heavily, throwing his arms out behind him and leaning back on his hands. It's cooler already, the sun beginning to go down and the sky turning a pleasant shade of pink.

"This is nice." Ian whispers, joining Mickey on the floor.

"Mmhmm." Mickey hums in reply. "I'm fuckin' hungry though."

Ian huffs out a laugh, pulling his bag off his back and putting it down between his legs.

"I got a sandwich left over from lunch." The kid offers with a shrug, a soft smile on his face.

Mickey thinks he looks fucking beautiful. The sun catching his red hair in the most brilliant way so it looks like it's on fire.

"What's in it?" He asks, his eyes narrowing.

"Cheese. The bread's kinda stale but at least it's not mouldy, right?"

Mickey pulls Ian's bag into his lap, rummaging amongst its contents until he finds the brown paper lunch bag. He takes the sandwich out and bites into it hungrily, his eyes closing as he savours the taste of something other than prison food. It wasn't a gourmet meal or a 12oz steak, but fuck was it good in comparison to that other shit.

"Thanks for bringing me here, Mick." Ian murmurs after a moment.

Mickey rolls his eyes, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He didn't understand why the kid always acted so privileged when Mickey offered any part of himself, as if it was some huge fucking deal. He doesn't get why it means so much, or why Gallagher even wants to know and see these things in the first place.

"Are you trying to make it up to me?" The redhead asks, a smirk on his face.

Mickey frowns. "The fuck you talkin' about?"

"Well, last time you got out you said about spreading a blanket out and looking for shooting stars. And, um..." Ian says, trailing off and gesturing with his arms at the rooftop they're on.

"Fuck off. That ain't what we're doing." He argues, tilting his head down when he feels his cheeks fill with warmth.

It really wasn't what they were doing, but  _fuck,_ it sure did kinda look that way.

"We're on a rooftop, the sun's going down, we're kind of having a picnic..." Ian continues.

Mickey wants to punch the smugness from his pretty, freckled face.

"First of all, it ain't my fault your ass was at school all day. And second, you're the one who got your fuckin' lunch out." Mickey grumbled defensively.

Ian shoves him playfully, laughter spilling from his lips when Mickey pushes back. The two of them roll around on the floor, roughhousing with big, carefree grins on their faces. There's nothing violent or aggressive about it, and Mickey can't remember the last time he'd messed around like this. It was rare he could trust anyone enough. He was always expecting everyone to try and take advantage. But not Ian.

Mickey tackles the kid onto his back, shackling his wrists to the ground and straddling his hips. He smiles widely, panting heavily from the effort it's taken him. Ian relaxes beneath him, his muscles going limp in surrender, and he stares up at Mickey with a thoughtful expression that's fucking terrifying. He's just releasing his hold, preparing to roll off and break the contact, when Ian suddenly moves forward and flips Mickey onto his back, reversing their position.

"What are you- " Mickey begins, his mind going blank the moment Ian slowly rolls his hips, dragging their clothed cocks together to create a perfect friction.

Mickey hadn't even realised he was hard.

"Fu-  _Fuck._ " He mutters, his eyes falling shut as he spreads his legs, hooking his ankles around Ian's thighs.

It's better like that, Ian able to press their groins together more comfortably. The playful edge to the evening seemed to have completely dissipated, and Mickey couldn't help but bite down on his lip when Ian's hands found their way beneath his shirt. 

"I wanna touch you properly this time." Ian murmurs, his voice a little ragged already.

Mickey doesn't say anything, but he sits up and helps Ian pull off his jacket and shirt when Ian tugs at him. The redhead pushes him back down again, kneeling between his open legs and trailing his fingertips down his chest, over his sternum, and then across his soft stomach. Mickey notices the small frown on the kid's face, and he's confused until he sees how Ian's tracing the bruise still sprouting from yesterday. Ian had never said anything about his bruises before, but he'd never ignored them either, and it seemed tonight wasn't going to be any different.

Ian crawls over him, dipping his head down until he can follow the same trail with his lips and tongue, sucking marks into the skin he knows Mickey will be able to hide. He bites gently on his nipples, swirling his tongue around them and sucking them into his mouth until they harden into dark peaks. Mickey whines in response, his fingers pulling at the back of his neck to try and keep him in place. Ian hummed in warning, tapping at Mickey's sides until he loosens his hold and lets Ian continue his path down his torso. The kisses to his bruised abdomen are feather-light and impossibly soft, and Mickey has to twist his head to the side to stop himself from wriggling. 

"Can I blow you?" Ian asks lowly.

Mickey opens his eyes and looks down his body at Ian, heat pooling in his stomach when he notices how the redhead's pupils have almost entirely swallowed the beautiful blue-green. 

"Yeah." Mickey breathes in reply.

Ian makes quick work of the button and zipper, and then he hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs his pants and boxers down in one go. He tugs Mickey's boots off impatiently so he can completely strip the clothing from him, before then tugging his own shirt over his head and situating himself between Mickey's legs. It's excruciatingly slow when he takes Mickey in hand, squeezing slightly at the base and licking gently at the head. Mickey tilts his head back, his mouth falling open as Ian sinks down, his tongue flat against the thick vein.

"Where's all your fuckin' hair gone?" He gasps, instinctively trying to twist his fingers into the red strands. He'd always liked having something to grab on to, something to help ground himself. "Fuckin' stupid shaving it off."

Ian hummed around him in reply and Mickey groaned in response, the vibrations sending pulses of sensation throughout his body. And then, suddenly, Ian lets him slide out his mouth with a _'pop'._  Mickey fucking hated when he did that. He's about to make a complaint, but Ian crawls back over him and lowers himself down until they're chest to chest. He presses his face into Mickey's neck, licking and nibbling at the sensitive flesh there, and slides his hands round to squeeze his ass.

"You better have lube. I swear to God Gallagher, if you don't- " Mickey pants, his back arching as he pushes back into Ian's hold. 

"There's some in my bag." He murmurs in Mickey's ear, biting down on his earlobe so that Mickey lets out a whine. 

"You're like a fucking boy scout."

Ian pulls back with a laugh, smoothing Mickey's slightly mussed hair off his forehead. The kid stares at him intently, holding eye contact as he rolls his hips again. Mickey whimpers, wrapping his arms around Ian's back and clawing at the muscle there.

"Get your kit off. Come on." Mickey murmurs, trying to push the jeans off with his feet.

Ian huffs, standing up so he can do as he's told, somehow remembering to grab the small packet of lube from his pocket and toss it at Mickey's chest.

"You not have a rubber?" Mickey asks, watching with anticipation as Ian kneels between his legs again.

Ian frowns. "I didn't think we were using them anymore."

"Not to be a dick, but I don't exactly know where that cock of yours has been."

Ian rolls his eyes dramatically. "I use a skin with everyone else, asshole."

Mickey stares at the redhead a moment, noting the complete sincerity on his face, and then gives a small nod. He has to swallow thickly at the kid's revelation, the surge of emotions he feels taking him a bit by surprise.

Ian leans forward, bracing a hand beside Mickey's head so he can watch his reaction when he pushes a slick finger into his tight heat. Every instinct tells Mickey to look away, but with the way Ian is gazing at him,  _almost lovingly,_ Mickey can't find it in him to do so.

"Good?" Ian asks softly, adding a second and starting to scissor him open.

Mickey closes his eyes with a grunt, riding back onto the digits in an attempt to slide them deeper.

"Missed you." Ian breathes into his ear, twisting his head so he can follow the statement with a kiss to Mickey's temple.

"Please, Ian- " Mickey groans. "Can you just-  _Now?"_

Ian nods against him, the short spikes of his hair tickling Mickey's cheek. He pulls his fingers out slowly, running the tips around Mickey's stretched rim with a smirk. 

 _"Asshole."_ Mickey grumbles.

"A+, Mick." Ian says as he squirts out more lube, quickly slicking himself up. "I didn't know you were so good at anatomy."

Mickey snorts loudly, not being able to fight the smile that pulls at his lips. He tries to turn over, keen to get on his hands and knees and get the show on the road, but Ian stops him with a hand to his hip. Mickey arches a brow at him, confused over the delay. _  
_

"I'm gonna fuck you like this." Ian says, hooking his hands under Mickey's knees and hitching his legs around his waist.

Mickey slides against the rough concrete, his bruised back throbbing a little. He can't find it in him to care though. Not when he's having a full-fledged panic attack over the prospect of this new position.

"Just gonna try it, Mick." Ian reassures him softly, bracing himself with a hand beside Mickey's head again whilst he guides the head of his cock inside with the other. "If you- If you don't like it... we can switch back." 

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, his hands reaching down to grab two handfuls of Ian's ass so he can pull him inside further. 

" _Fuck."_ He hiccups when Ian bottoms out, the fullness of the new position overwhelming. 

He opens his eyes and gasps when he notices how close Ian's face is, their noses almost brushing and their lips only a couple inches apart. Ian circles his hips slowly, teasing, and then begins to thrust shallowly. It's fucking good, the way they're pressed so tightly together, breathing into each other's mouths as Ian begins to snap his hips at a faster pace. It's terrifying, but Mickey can't deny it's fucking worth it.

 _"Mickey- "_ Ian murmurs, one hand moving to grab his shoulder so he doesn't slide along the floor.

"There. There. There. There." Mickey suddenly babbles, his back arching and his eyes rolling back when Ian hits his prostate. 

Ian shushes him, resting his forehead on Mickey's as he shifts his hips to ensure he's slamming against the sweet-spot on every thrust. Mickey opens his eyes, his heart beating so quickly he thinks he might actually have a heart attack, and whimpers vulnerably when his gaze locks with Ian's. It's too fucking much having all the redhead's attention on him like this, especially when he's got the kid balls-deep inside him. He'd always felt so fucking dirty after being fucked, but with the way Ian's staring at him like he's something special, something  _worthy,_ Mickey feels a pleasant warmth wash over him. He'd never liked anyone watching him during sex because he felt too ashamed of himself, but it's different with Ian somehow. 

"Kiss me." Ian whispers. "Please."

And Mickey panics. He wants to do it, he really does, but he just  _can't._ It meant too much, and Mickey didn't think he deserved that from Ian, not when he still couldn't promise the kid anything. He stares wide eyed at him, his mouth working minutely but no sound coming out. Ian tilts his head down an inch further, and Mickey knows exactly what he's going to do, so he pushes roughly against the redhead's chest and flips him onto his back. 

"Mickey, what the- " Ian says, his voice breaking off when Mickey sinks down on to him.

"Just shut up, alright?" Mickey murmurs, his thighs shaking as he lifts himself up and drops back down again, a moan spilling from both their lips.

"Sorry." Ian hiccups, his knuckles white with how hard he grips onto Mickey's hips, helping him set up a rhythm. 

"Don't- " Mickey pants. "I'm- I'mna screwed in the head."

"No you're not." Ian gasps, his hips stuttering slightly as he thrusts up. "You're perfect. Fucking perfect, Mick."

Mickey swells with pride, dropping down over Ian and resting his weight on his forearms, and riding him at a now blistering pace. He feels as Ian's hands move to his back, roaming down the expanse of it and then curving over his ass. It feels fucking good, but it's nothing compared to when Ian swipes his fingers over Mickey's stretched rim, gliding over the sensitive flesh where they're connected so impossibly tightly. Mickey clenches around him, his head falling back and his eyes opening to look up at the darkening sky, the fucking stars beginning to glow faintly behind the wispy clouds. He shouts out when Ian grips his cock, pumping it in time to his thrusts and twisting sharply at the head. Mickey's falling apart, and when Ian thumbs at the slit, it feels like he's splitting at the seams. He comes hard, spurting over Ian's chest, a loud cry tearing its way from his throat, slumping forwards in complete exhaustion. He's aware dimly of Ian still moving inside him, and then suddenly the redhead is arching beneath him, shuddering through his own climax. 

Mickey slides heavily to the side, rolling onto his back as he struggled to get enough oxygen back into his lungs. He turned his head slightly to glance at Ian, smiling at the way he was sprawled out and staring up at the sky as if in shock. 

"You alright there, firecrotch?" Mickey asks, wincing in embarrassment at how strangled he sounds.

Ian  _mm'd,_ his eyelids fluttering lazily. 

It's silent for a moment, the two of them slowly coming down from their high. They only last a couple minutes before the sweat on their skin begins to cool, the slight breeze in the air making them shiver. They dress quietly, both sneaking glances at each other, and then sit side by side at the edge. Mickey pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it up and passing it over for Ian to take the first drag. He watches the way the redhead's lips wrap around it, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks the smoke into his lungs. He thinks it's beautiful. But it's possible that's just the post-coital bliss talking.

Ian passes it back with a sigh, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them, staring out at the Chicago streets. He looks sad and Mickey has no fucking idea why. 

"You okay?" He asks gently.

"Monica tried to kill herself." Ian whispers with a sigh. "Thanksgiving."

Mickey blinks hard, frowning as he tries to find something to say. "She alright now though?"

Ian nods shortly. "Yeah, I guess. She's still fucking sick, but she's not dead. Not as far as I know anyway."

Mickey purses his lips, considering. He's not usually one for sharing his problems, but he figures it'll probably make Ian feel better. The kid always seemed to appreciate it when Mickey offered up something about himself. And, like he said, Mickey doesn't get it. But, still. If it works, right?

"My mom died when I was in Juvie. Overdose." He says, taking a long drag from the cigarette and holding it down, blowing it out his nose again in an exhale. "Mandy sent me a fucking postcard." 

Ian turned to look at him slowly, his brows furrowed and his eyes a little red. "I thought she died years ago? When you were little?" He murmurs. "That's what Mandy told me."

"Nah. Mandy wishes she had." Mickey laughs, but it's not funny at all. 

"How come?" Ian asks hesitantly.

"Mom was a schiz. A full on crazy, psychotic bitch."

"I think anyone would be if they were married to your dad."

"Watch it." Mickey mutters, but there's no real threat there. 

"I wish you'd been here." Ian confesses quietly.

"What d'ya mean?"

"When Monica... you know."

Mickey swallowed thickly, lost as to what he should say. He just doesn't fucking get it. He doesn't get why the redhead wants him so fucking badly, as if he has anything at all to offer him. Mickey has nothing, is nothing, but Ian looks at him like he's the fucking sun. He wants to be worthy though, wants to prove to Ian that he can be what he needs in at least some capacity. Hell, he needs to prove it, doesn't think he'll be able to live with himself much longer unless he steps up.

"I'm here now." He whispers with a shrug, looking away shyly when he notices Ian smiling. 

"Yeah."

It was a start. It was more of himself than he'd ever given anyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I do not take credit for the dialogue from the show; I have simply used it to aid my own story and exploration of Mickey.  
> The credit for those parts goes deservedly to the writers.
> 
> Feel free to contact me: http://enochianess.tumblr.com


End file.
